


All For You

by Spoodlemonkey



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Brief Descriptions of Sex, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Protective Freddie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2019-04-22
Packaged: 2020-01-24 02:04:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18561730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spoodlemonkey/pseuds/Spoodlemonkey
Summary: Someone touches his side and he uncurls enough to see Mitch and the trainer hovering over him. He looks past them, spotting the fight that’s broken out.And then he watches as Freddie levels Burns.





	All For You

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this idea for awhile and finally figured out how I wanted to structure it! Unbeta'd so all mistakes are my own!

Given the choice, Connor would probably laze about in bed all morning. He likes to wake up slowly, the warm morning light filtering in where they’ve left the heavy blackout curtains open, the press of the duvet against his skin, shifting until he finds where it’s still cool where it hasn’t been covering him all night. He rolls onto his back, eyes still closed, and stretches, arms high above his head and hands pressed to the headboard. 

During the season there’s far too many mornings where he has to set his alarm, waking up to the insistent buzzing instead of the slow return to conscious that he’s luxuriating in now. He’s a little sore, a little stiff from last night but it fades as he stretches. Under the blanket he’s naked and the soft material rubs teasingly against his morning wood. 

He doesn’t startle at the big, warm hand that slides across his stomach. He arches into the touch, angling to get it to slide lower. There’s a chuckle and Connor grins, cracking open his eyes.

“Morning.” Freddie leans in to press a sweet kiss to his mouth.

“Morning breath.” Connor mumbles but Freddie ignores him. His own breath is minty fresh and he licks into Connor’s mouth with a content hum. His teeth feel fuzzy and gross but if Freddie is going to ignore it, then Connor certainly can. 

Freddie’s hand slides down his belly and wraps around his cock, grip firm and a little dry, coaxing him to full hardness. He keeps kissing Connor until he’s squirming in Freddie’s grip, panting against his mouth more than anything. His hips shift restlessly against the mattress, toes curling and when he comes it washes over him leaving him breathless. 

Freddie presses a final kiss to his lips and pulls back, climbing out of bed. He disappears into the washroom to clean his hands. Connor hasn’t managed to move by the time he comes back out, but he tilts his head, eyeing the way Freddie’s sweats are tenting the front. 

He grins.

“Come here.” He holds his arms out and Freddie is quick to climb into his embrace. Feeling a little more energized, he rolls them until Freddie is sprawled out on his back, Connor straddling his hips. Through the material, he can feel Freddie pressing insistently against his ass. He gives a teasing little grind, relishing in the way Freddie’s eyes flutter shut. 

“Connor.” Freddie warns, hands falling to his thighs. He strokes along the bare skin there and Connor shivers at the touch.

“Alright, fine.” He huffs, laughing as Freddie gives him an unimpressed look. He shifts back, tugging Freddie’s sweats down with him and does his best to make Freddie shake apart.

 

::

 

He’s showered and dressed, at the stove working on their omelettes when Freddie comes up behind him. He wraps his arms around Connor’s waist, his broad chest against his back, and presses a kiss to Connor’s neck.

Connor leans into the embrace, carefully flipping the omelette in the pan. The counter is a mess of bits of vegetable and dishes that need to be put in the dishwasher. He’s feeling too lazy to deal with it right now. They don’t have to be at the arena until later, plenty of time to put it off. 

“You’re a bit of a hurricane.” Freddie comments. 

“Saving my energy for the game.” Connor grins. He takes the pan off the burner, turning it off and reluctantly pulls out of the embrace. Freddie grabs plates from the cupboard and holds them out for Connor to dole out the food. 

They eat at the table, feet tangled together underneath. Freddie has his phone in one hand, probably texting Matty, fork in the other. Connor has his Ipad propped up next to his plate, reading. A comfortable silence falls over them, interspersed with the odd comment. 

Freddie clears the table when they’re done, stacking the dishwasher and cleaning the mess on the counters. They have a few hours before they need to head out so they end up on the couch with a movie on. Freddie lets Connor press him down into the ridiculously plush cushions, one of the first items they bought together, and sprawl across him, covering him like a large blanket. Connor dozes, cheek pressed to Freddie’s chest, lulled by the gentle rise and fall of his chest.

They run into Enzo in the parking garage before the game. They head in together, nodding at the few reporters who have turned up early. The locker room is already half full, a riot of noise and energy. Connor gets changed and joins Mo and Jake in a round of soccer in the hall, loosening up. They go through their stretches, chirping each other, anticipation building the closer they get to puck drop.

Finally, they take to the ice, first for a warmup and finally for the game. Freddie bumps their helmets together in the tunnel before leading the charge out onto sheet. 

They’re playing the Sharks and it’s a chippy game, both needing the points for the play off run. Naz gets a high stick in the first period and ends up with the trainers in the locker room for concussion protocol. Connor gets bumped up on Pattys wing while Naz is out. The game only gets rougher.

Intermission is a welcomed break. They’ve all got their bumps and bruises but Naz has been okayed to rejoin. 

They retake the ice in the second with a new strategy, revitalized. 

Less than four minutes in Connor gets boarded in his own zone. He’s got half an eye on the puck, half on the white Sharks jerseys headed his way, but Burns comes out of nowhere. 

The breath is knocked out of him from the hit and he twists, hits the boards wrong. Pain explodes from his shoulder. He hits the ice and stays there, bile creeping up his throat as stars dance across his vision. Something hits his side again and again and he realizes he must be laying on the puck. He curls up, half to protect himself, half to keep the puck away from the Sharks. It feels like ages before the whistle blows, and then it does, over and over. The arena roars. There’s shouting around him and his arm throbs as he’s jostled. 

Someone touches his side and he uncurls enough to see Mitch and the trainer hovering over him. He looks past them, spotting the fight that’s broken out. The refs are having trouble corralling the players. Connor squints, he doesn’t remember Naz or Dermott being on the ice before he went down. 

And then he watches as Freddie levels Burns. 

Even with the goalie pads on he’s a force to be reckoned with and it takes two other Sharks to pull him off of Burns. 

The trainer helps Connor get to his feet when they determine it’s his shoulder, careful not to jostle him. Mitch stays on his other side, keeping the brawling players away. It’s starting to look like the referees are getting control. Connor looks for Freddie again, spotting him in time to watch him shake off the Sharks holding him. His mask is long gone and his face is flushed with rage. 

The trainer tries to steer him towards the bench but Connor resists, trying to get close enough to be heard over the chaos.

“Freddie !” He shouts and again when Freddie doesn’t immediately hear him. 

His expression when he finally spots Connor is raw, and the relief he finds there is staggering.

“I’m okay!” He thinks Freddie hears him as the trainer and Mitch finally manage to steer him away, ganging up on him as the throbbing of his shoulder gets worse. He doesn’t get to see what happens next, ushered off the ice and down the tunnel. 

They get him out of his gear but he needs x-rays. Connor flat out refuses to go until the intermission so they give him an ice pack and secure his shoulder with strict instructions not to move. They get him his phone so he can text his parents and let them know he’s alright. He watches the game on the television, and every time he tenses at a close call it’s sends bright bursts of pain through his shoulder and across his chest. 

Finally the clock runs down on the period. Connor is seriously considering sneaking out to the locker room when Freddie shows up, helmet and gloves missing but still decked out in his gear. He hurries across, expression tense, worried and Connor rises to meet him, wincing when it jars his arm.

“Sit down.” Freddie snaps. Connor sinks back down with a frown. “Are you okay?” He scrubs a hand through his hair, tugging harshly on the ends. 

“Sore.” He admits. His shoulder is throbbing in time with his heart, his fingers feeling a little numb. “They want me to go for x-rays.” 

Freddie swears, expression turning murderous.

“I’m going to kill Burns.”

“Hey,” Connor holds out his good hand and Freddie immediately takes it in his own, his touch gentle. “It was an awkward fall. It wasn’t dirty.”

“He tried to get the puck while it was under you.” Freddie scowls. His thumb strokes along Connor’s palm in deference to his harsh tone. 

“Yeah, so make sure they don’t get any goals on us.” Connor grins. 

Freddie stares down at their joined hands for a moment before nodding. He looks a little less murderous when he meets Connor’s eye again. He sighs, leaning in to press a kiss to Connor’s forehead. 

“I was so scared.” He admits quietly. Connor’s heart aches. 

“I’m okay, I promise. I’m sorry I scared you.” His shoulder gives a little twinge, reminding him that it might not be completely true. It’s sobering thinking that he could be out for the rest of the season, this close in the run for the playoffs. He tries not to think about it.

“When are you going for the x-rays?” 

“After intermission probably.” The sooner they go, the sooner Connor can get some painkillers into his system. The ache is starting to wear at him. 

“Text me when you get to the hospital. I’ll come right after the game.” 

“You don’t have to.”

“Connor.” Freddie cuts him off. He’s grateful; he really does want Freddie with him, hates a little how he can’t have him with him now. But if he can’t be on the ice, at least Freddie can. 

The pains really starting to ache now that his mind isn’t focused on just making it until intermission and Freddie must read it in his expression, frown deepening. “How bad is it?”

“I’m wishing I could take something for it.” He admits. 

Freddie waves over one of their trainers. 

“Get checked out, I’ll get your stuff and meet you at the hospital as soon as I can, okay?”

Connor nods, a lump in his throat stopping him from replying. He swallows around it, chest tight, feeling overwhelmed. 

“I love you.” Freddie murmurs, quiet enough that it’s for Connor’s ears only. 

He doesn’t get a chance to say it back before the trainer’s there. They grab his coat and shoes and before he knows it he’s in a car headed away from the arena.

 

::

 

They take him to Toronto General. The game isn’t over yet so traffic isn’t terrible, but it’s still heavy for the time of night. He gets bustled into a curtained off area quickly enough but then has to wait for a doctor to come and see him. He sends Freddie a few texts letting him know where he is and how to find him, then switches to Instagram, trying to distract himself from the ache, from the game. 

Eventually they take him for x-rays, forcing him into a wheelchair even though it’s his arm and not his legs that is the problem. They put him in a few different positions, and it hurts like a bitch. He’s exhausted, sore, by the time they finish so he ends up being grateful for the wheelchair after all. 

They wheel him back to the curtained off bed and Connor tries not to feel too disappointed when there isn’t anyone waiting for him. He gets settled on the bed but he’s having trouble getting comfortable when every way he moves sends a vicious ache through him. It gives him time to think too, think about all the time he’s going to miss, about how close to the playoffs they are. He’s fourth line as it is, there are others that can cover for him, what if they don’t even need him back? What if they do better without him on the line? 

Tears of frustration gather but he refuses to let them fall, cheeks burning, chest tight. He tries some of the exercises he’s seen Freddie do to get ready for games, tries to calm his breathing, to focus on something positive, but it’s hard. 

“Mr. Brown?” A nurse pokes their head through the divide in the curtains and Connor rubs his sleeve over his eyes quickly. “You have a visitor.” 

Freddie slides past the nurse. He takes one look at Connor and hurries over, resting a hip on the bed to pull him into a careful hug. It still jostles his shoulder, but Connor is able to ignore it, burying his face in Freddie’s jacket and shutting out the world.

“Hey, you’re alright.” Freddie soothes as Connor tries desperately to keep from crying. “What happened?” 

“Nothing.” Connor shakes his head, presses his nose against the fabric of his jacket and breathes in the lingering scent of Freddie’s aftershave. “Just stuck in my own head.” 

Freddie hums, one big hand coming up to cup the back of Connor’s head, stroking through his hair. It feels good and Connor leans into it, embracing the comfort offered. He stays there, wrapped up in Freddie’s arms, for awhile.

 

::   
  


It’s late when they get home.

Connor’s dead on his feet from his medication and the earlier pain, arm held tight against his chest in a sling. He’s lucky, he knows, that it’s only a light sprain. A week or so with a sling, he could be back on the ice for practice in a month. It still cuts deep that he’s out. 

Freddie drops their gear bags by the door to be dealt with in the morning. He looks tired too, sixty minutes of game time followed by waiting with Connor at the hospital for his results have him cracking yawns as they shuffle through the apartment. Connor hasn’t showered yet and he’s itchy from the dried sweat so Freddie directs him to the bathroom, helping him strip, and then into the shower. He follows after, soaping Connor up, shampooing his hair, and then rinsing him down, careful not to get soap in his eyes.

Connor’s barely awake by the time they get out, the heat relaxing muscles he hadn’t even known were pulled tight from pain and stress, and leaving him feeling loose. Freddie helps him dry off and gets him into a pair of pajama pants. Getting into bed turns out to be a difficult task- it’s higher up and Freddie has to give him a bit of a boost, hands on his hips and lifting. If Connor were more awake, hurt less, it would be scorchingly hot the way Freddie lifts him and moves him where he wants, propping Connor up with pillows. As it is, he’s barely able to appreciate it, eyes slipping shut as Freddie goes and turns off the lights before climbing in next to him.

“I set an alarm for your next dose of pain meds.” His voice is soft in the quiet of the room. Connor hums, body too heavy to reply properly. Fingers stroke gently across his cheek and he leans into the touch. “I’m glad you’re alright.”

Connor licks his lips, eyes shut, and summons up enough energy to slur, “Love you, Fred.” 

“Love you too.” Freddie presses a soft kiss to his temple. “Get some sleep.”

And who is Connor to argue with that?

He’s asleep between one breath and the next.

 


End file.
